


there you are

by zeldalookslonely



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, everyone is a disaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:19:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22480147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldalookslonely/pseuds/zeldalookslonely
Summary: “Crowley,” Aziraphale says, annoyed now.  “I was very intimidating.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 83





	there you are

Here’s Crowley’s problem: existence is boring, a slog. Existence is nothingness. He’s recently unemployed, his only real friend still looks a little twitchy after spending too much time together, and he’s given up using miracles for anything short of preventing outright discorporation. So what is there to do now? He could add more ads to YouTube videos or siphon off the rest of Netflix’s content, but what’s the point? There are no quotas to fill. Not anymore.

That’s how he finds himself clinging to the ceiling of his flat, staring at his television upside-down. He thought it might give him a new perspective, but a blank screen is a blank screen, no matter how you look at it.

He needs a nap.

…

He doesn’t dream.

…

Knocking. Someone is knocking. Someone is ruining the best nap he’s had in centuries by knocking. “Rude,” he says aloud, to the emptiness of his bedroom. “Inconsiderate.”

More knocking.

“Inconsiderate!” Crowley shouts, storming out of bed, as much as he’s capable of storming while also yawning. He swings the front door open with ferocious intensity. “You’re inconsiderate,” he says, but all the fight is already gone.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Yes. Yes, I know.”

“Aziraphale. What are you doing here?”

“May I come in?”

As if he could say no. So he stands back, sweeps his arm toward his sofa in what he hopes is a subtle mockery of a welcoming gesture.

Aziraphale beams at him. Follows him inside. Stands before him, rocking from his toes to his heels and back again. “I brought you something!”

“Oh?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale brings one hand, which he’s been holding behind his back, out in front of Crowley. In the center of his palm is a plant. A tiny plant in a tiny black planter. Aziraphale looks up hopefully, says, “It’s a succulent!”

“I see.”

“It’s terribly striking! I thought of you immediately.”

“Of course.”

“I know what you’re thinking! But you don’t have to worry; it knows what’s expected of it. I gave it quite the talking-to.”

“Did you,” Crowley says, and his disbelief must be very obvious, because Aziraphale visibly dims.

“I assure you that I did.”

“I’m sure you tried, in your own angelic way.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, annoyed now. “I was very intimidating.”

“I’m sure you were,” Crowley says. Smirks.

Aziraphale takes a step back. “I’ll just leave this with you,” he says tightly. Makes for the door.

“Wait,” Crowley says. Bites his lip. Clenches his fists. Finds himself blinking back tears without quite knowing why. “Show me.”

“What?”

“If you were so intimidating, you could show me. Show me how.”

“You want me to…”

“Show me,” Crowley says again. Shrugs his shoulders. Tries to smile.

Aziraphale looks at him carefully. Nods. “I started by filling a large glass with water,” he says to Crowley, then turns to face the plant. Squares his shoulders. “You’re a lovely little thing. A perfect gift. I have no doubt you’ll thrive under Crowley’s care. However, I do feel the need to warn you against slacking off. You see, my dear Crowley has certain expectations for his small Eden. You will grow, and you will grow carefully.” He clears his throat, twists his head to address Crowley again. “This is where I slammed the glass down, hard enough so that water sloshed over the rim, but not hard enough to break it. Right. Okay.” He turns back to the plant, exhales heavily, and Crowley watches as his entire stance changes: spine straightens, chin up, hand tense at his side. The Ethereal Warrior. “If I get one small hint that you are not doing your damnedest to grow as well as you can, I will see to it that you regret it. If you think I will hesitate for one second to _drown_ you, you are sadly mistaken! I will _drown_ you! I will starve your roots of oxygen, I will see you rot and re-rot and rot again! I will pluck your pretty leaves, one by one! I can prolong your agony for _as long as I wish_! I will have you _praying_ for the sweet quick death of Crowley’s garbage disposal!” He relaxes. Waves away his concerns with one hand. “But I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I’m sure you’ll do the best you possibly can.”

He turns to face Crowley, smiling sweetly, eyebrows up in question. The succulent quakes behind him.

Crowley smiles back. Watery. “I’ve seen worse,” he says, or, “Not bad for a first timer,” or “Listen to Morrissey with me.” Or nothing at all.

“I do love you,” Aziraphale says, and he has the _actual audacity_ to look as though that’s exactly what he meant to say.

“What.”

“Of course I thought you knew, but you had that look on your face when I came in. That look the humans get when they feel all alone.”

“Humans,” Crowley parrots, and Aziraphale looks uncomfortable for the first time.

“Yes, well, you’re right. I suppose we’ve all felt that way from time to time. I suppose I have.” He shakes his head. “Regardless. You’re not alone. I _do_ love you. All right?”

“All right,” Crowley says, and watches as Aziraphale smiles at him, gives a small wave, and walks right out the door.

…

Crowley makes it two hours and ten minutes before giving in. Driving is out of the question tonight, so he materializes right inside the bookshop. Right in front of Aziraphale, in fact, who looks up at him from his armchair with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

“Crowley?”

“Obviously.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley barks out something like a laugh. “Aziraphale,” Crowley says, “You come by my flat with no warning, you--”

“At least I used the door,” Aziraphale mutters.

“ _You come by my flat with no warning_ , you bring me a plant, you say you love me, and you leave.”

“I didn’t mean to leave! I was flustered.”

“You were flustered. _You_ were flustered!”

“I’d been fairly certain you’d return the sentiment,” Aziraphale says, and looks up at Crowley, frowning. He reaches out to take Crowley’s hand. “Is it that you’re concerned I’m only interested in a romantic relationship? Because I assure you, if what you feel is platonic love, it’s just as important as--”

Crowley makes a sound he’s never made before, never even heard before, something so high pitched and disbelieving and embarrassing he almost wishes he could discorporate right now.

Aziraphale yanks his hand back. “Fine,” he snaps. “You don’t love me at all, my mistake; the love I feel _pouring from you_ when we’re together is probably for my waistcoat.”

Crowley closes his eyes. Pouring. _Pouring_. “Platonic,” he says. “Is that how you…?”

Aziraphale levels him with a look. “I hardly wish to pressure you.”

Crowley sits heavily, right down on the floor, doesn’t know what to do, how to proceed, how to move. He doesn’t know how to _move_.

Aziraphale hovers over him, talking surely, but Crowley can’t really hear, can’t bring himself to focus; he blinks and suddenly he’s on the sofa. Ensconced in cozy blankets, boots off. 

“I’ve done this all wrong,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley says nothing. 

Aziraphale sits beside him, tips his head to one side. Considering. “It’s a terrible regret of mine, that you were so surprised when I told you I loved you. I never meant to make you feel so alone, my dear. I never wanted-- but there, that’s enough of that. I won’t mention any of it again, all right? I won’t have you feeling uncomfortable! I’ll--”

“Don’t _not_ mention it!” Crowley says, outraged. “You can’t just! I want to hear!”

“I love you,” Aziraphale says quickly, as if he can outrun any previous missteps by talking fast enough. “I love you, I’ve loved you for a very long time, I’ll say it every day, every hour. I love you.”

“All right,” Crowley says. “All right.” He lets himself stay for a few more minutes, breathing in dust and cologne and angel, before brushing Aziraphale’s wrist with his thumb and disappearing home.

…

The next morning, Crowley picks up chocolates. A fussy orchid that reminds him of Aziraphale. Time to stop being so reactive. But when he makes it to the shop (through the door this time) the place is packed; Crowley can hardly see to the register through throngs of university students. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale calls from the far corner of the shop, surrounded by humans. “I love you!”

“I love you too,” he calls back, loud enough to be heard over the chattering, but not loud enough to disturb anyone. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> found this in my drafts! now i'm inflicting it upon you


End file.
